“I see.” The lord returned as the man retreated, his words clipped and frosty. His spine went rigid, his posture regaining its aristocratic stiffness. “I understand perfectly.”
He turned and walked toward the door, his stride stiff and his shoulders set. He didn’t look back. He paused with his hand on the handle, his back to her. “I hope he makes you happy.” The parting shot sounded like ice cracking on a winter pond. “I hope sense keeps you warm at night.”
The door slammed behind him. The bell jangled, harsh and discordant, before settling into a mocking silence.
Nell stood alone in the middle of her shop, surrounded by the scent of yeast and flour and the silence of her own breaking heart. She’d done the right thing, for she knew she had. Her hands were steady as she crossed to the door and flipped the sign back to OPEN, even if her heart was not.
The afternoon passed in a blur of familiar routines. Customers came and went. Nell smiled and served and made change, her hands moving through the motions while her mind drifted somewhere far away.
Daphne returned from her errands at half past three. She set down her basket of thread and ribbon and took one look at Nell’s face. Whatever she saw there made her go quiet, and she set to work without a word.
She didn’t ask until closing, when the shop was empty and the door was locked. They stood alone in the kitchen, putting away the unsold loaves.
“What happened?” Daphne asked, concerned. She stilled her hands on a loaf of bread, waiting.
Nell wiped down the counter with methodical rhythmic strokes. “Lord Westmore came by.”
“And?” Daphne set the bread down, looking at her intently.
Nell kept wiping, her movements mechanical and repetitive. “He proposed.”
Daphne went absolutely still, her hand frozen in midair. “He did what?”
“He proposed marriage.” Nell didn’t look up, her tone remaining flat. “He said he loved me. He offered me everything. Bramwell Park, money, his name for the children.”
Daphne sucked in a sharp breath and stepped closer to the counter. “Nell?—”
“I said no.” Nell set down the cloth and finally looked up, meeting Daphne’s shocked gaze.
Silence filled the kitchen, broken only by the crackle of the fire in the hearth.
“You said no.” Daphne repeated the words slowly, testing whether they could possibly be true. Her brow furrowed in confusion. “To a viscount.”
“To a man who doesn’t think before he acts.” Nell folded the cloth, her movements precise and sharp. “To a future that would destroy us both.”
Daphne was quiet for a long moment, arms crossed tight over her chest as she processed the heaviness of it. “And Dr. Hartley?”
“He offered, too.” Nell hung her apron on its hook by the door, keeping her back turned. “His name. Today. No complications.”
“What did you tell him?” Daphne’s voice was soft, treading carefully.
“That I’d think about it.” Nell smoothed her skirts with brisk, clipped movements, as if she could press the turmoil out of the fabric.
Daphne nodded slowly. When Nell finally turned around, she found her friend’s dark stare tracking every shift in her expression. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Nell straightened her spine, her expression settling into a practiced, porcelain blankness. “I made the sensible choice.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Daphne stepped closer, her hand grazing Nell’s arm in a silent plea for honesty.
Nell didn’t answer. She couldn’t—because the truth was a luxury she couldn’t afford, and she was so tired of lying to Daphne, to herself, and to a world that saw only a sensible widow who always did the right thing.
Seventeen
The ride back to Bramwell Park rushed past in trees and pounding hooves. Her final refusal beat against his skull with every strike of the horse’s feet.
My answer is no.Dominic didn’t remember the journey. He didn’t remember urging his horse faster, nor the wind cutting at his face or the branches whipping past his shoulders. He only remembered her steady eyes as she refused him. He’d offered her everything. His name. His home. His heart. She had said no as though the choice were simple, as though it cost her nothing.
Bramwell Park appeared through the trees, a grey stone monolith with empty windows that looked like hollow eyes. It was a mausoleum of memories and silence, yet he’d grown up in this house. He’d learned to walk in its corridors and had hidden from his father’s rages in its dark corners. Now it loomed before him like a prison, and he rode toward it with something black and terrible building in his chest.
